


Entirely

by MyckiCade



Series: The Things We Knew, and a Few We Didn't [3]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg could have anyone he wanted in a place like this. Literally, anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entirely

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s Note: Another oldie. Written in response to the following prompt:
> 
> "Ooh ooh ooh Sherstrade + Tarantism or Baisemain".
> 
> Enjoy!

Greg could have anyone he wanted in a place like this. Literally,  _anyone._  Waitresses, the bartender, other patrons… The realization doesn’t hit home, right away, though. No, it takes it’s time in making itself obvious. It’s infuriating. It’s maddening. It’s also the most upsetting thing that Sherlock has been forced to deal with in quite some time.

From the minute that they step into the bar, all eyes are on them. At first, Sherlock takes it for a recognition of his near-celebrity status, in and about London. He wishes they’d all mind their business, and, after a couple of moments, most of them do. There’s a young woman seated two tables over, glancing at them every couple of seconds, biting at her straw as she giggles something to her friends. She’s… Well, he’s sure that  _cute_  is a word best saved for someone else’s opinion, but, by conventional standards, he’s certain she is. And, the first waitress who comes by, she leaves a wink behind, pointedly directed at Greg. The older man seems a bit flattered by this, but he doesn’t say anything, outright. Sherlock, on the other hand… He’s starting to piece things together, and he’s not liking the picture he’s getting.

Now, Sherlock’s not a territorial sort, really, he’s not. (So long as no one is to ask Greg. Or, John. Or, Mrs. Hudson). He knows that the Detective Inspector is a catch, obviously. Hell, half of the Yard would likely jump at the  _slightest_  of a chance with the man. It’s no secret, and, yet, here he sits, across from the man that the  _entirety_  of the Yard, half of Baker Street, and the bulk of the British government would love to see locked away, or banished, or likely even shot. Someone who has, more than once, been described as having the personality of a wet dish cloth, and the warmth of a corpse. Stood beside a man as fine and upstanding as Greg Lestrade, one has to wonder, what kind of a match is that?

No, Sherlock’s not the territorial sort, indeed. He’s more the ‘roll over and surrender’ type, where this romance business is concerned.

He must spend a minute too long staring into the depths of his tea cup, for he doesn’t notice Greg’s hand until it’s wrapped around his own. Glancing up, Sherlock tunes back in, just in time for the gentle warmth of his lover’s lips to make contact with the back of his hand. When he lowers Sherlock’s hand to the table, Greg smiles, brushing his thumb over a couple of the younger man’s fingers.

“You’re driftin’ off on me, are ya’, love?” he asks, in that ever-concerned way of his.

Sherlock sighs. “Yes. But, I’m making my way back to shore.” It’s a difficult thing to do, to let go of, sometimes, the idea that he doesn’t belong here. That he doesn’t  _fit in_  with the rest of the picture that is Greg’s life. Still, he manages to pull his attentions back to his lover, in-full. “Sorry.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, before Greg’s grip tightens over Sherlock’s hand. “Dance with me, yeah?” There’s a small space, off to the side of the room, where several couples are already swaying back and forth with the music filtering through an old jukebox. It looks… comfortable. Nice.

Before he can think twice on the matter, Sherlock nods. “Yes. Please.”

They stand, Greg gently tugging Sherlock along, until they’re within the designated dancing space. The older man smiles, pulls Sherlock close, and steals a kiss. Sherlock can’t help but to smile, a bit, himself. Such a simple act, dancing. But, here, within the hold of Greg’s arms, it still manages to leave him feeling as though he is, once again, the center of his love’s universe.


End file.
